A strong marriage bond connects Jack Gladney and his current wife Babette in Don DeLillo’s White Noise. Gladney muses: “Sometimes I think our love is inexperienced. The question of dying becomes a wise reminder. It cures us of our innocence of the future. Simple things are doomed, or is that a superstition?” He continues: “Babette and I tell each other everything… turned our lives for each other’s thoughtful regard, turned them in the moonlight in our pale hands, spoken deep into the night… In these night recitations we create a space between things as we felt them at the time and as we speak them now.” DeLillo’s handwritten notes for the novel are featured in the exhibition.In the Galleries: “Love and Relationships”

One perk of living in Austin that I have not taken advantage of is going to The University of Texas at Austin's Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center to check out the Archive of Don DeLillo. Back when I was really interested in being a Novelist, I got really pissed off at his book "Underworld" because every other page had a paragraph so amazing that it made me give up writing. I can't think of the root cause of why I gave up writing. I think I had an ex that fucked all the talent out of me. She was the PJ Harvey to my Nick Cave. Except Nick at least got "The Boatman's Call" out of that relationship.

And the prize for whiniest band goes to.......THE KILLS. The heat was killing them, and apparently they've never done a daytime show, so "Hotel" wanted to give out the number to their agent so we would call between the hours of 2am and 4am and ask him why the fuck they were playing during the daytime. Last words of their set: "Stay Out Of The Sun". One twitter message from the local paper said something along the lines of "I wonder what it would take for the Kills not to wear black. maybe 94 degrees would do it." At one point Alison said "My feet are on fire".

And sure, since you mention it, I am a little sensitive to the
whole ‘Californians are flocking here, buying up real estate and
homogenizing local culture’ ideology. Because it’s just not true. It’s
a generalization. A stereotype that’s more reflective of your own fear
and ignorance than any actual phenomenon. About as on-beam as saying
gypsies steal children, or that Jews need the blood of Christian
virgins, otherwise the matzoh comes out all doughy. Or that Mexicans
are leprocidal wage invaders. Or maybe you’re right-on. Maybe we’re on
the verge of a massive wave of people uprooting from Santa Cruz and
Marin and Santa Barbara, spontaneously deciding to give up six-figure
jobs, valley produce, seven months of skiing, and an Eden-like
coastline—in order to live in a hot-as-seven-hells, ocean-less city
surrounded by Republicans, with scant options for decent Italian food,
and where the word queso doesn’t actually mean ‘cheese.’ But
Lord, do we have football. And music. And healthy, pretty, friendly
people... rare enough for a place with both good football and good
music. My point is, you're not going to get on the boat unless you're
already on board, so to speak.